


The Lady and the Spectre

by allonsytotumblr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ghosts, Horror, Mild Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: Perhaps not all ghosts are evil. Written for Terrifying Tolkien Week 2017.





	The Lady and the Spectre

These dwellings are haunted, Aredhel is sure of it.

 

It is not the vague evil that hangs around this dark place, it is...different. More focused. Aredhel feels something watching her, not all the time, but it is there, undeniably so. Her things go missing, fires suddenly go out, doors open and slam shut unexpectedly, making her jump.

 

She sees nothing solid, no horrors grinning at her mischievously, but she sees fleeting reflections in mirrors, odd flickers that cannot be caused by torchlight. When Aredhel can catch a glimpse of it, what she sees is black and fluid with overly long arms, and she thinks that if it looks like this then perhaps she would be better off not seeing it at all.

 

She is not going mad. Aredhel flatly refuses to consider this as the cause of these occurrences. Madness did not feel like this, did it? Or, rather, she is not descending _further_ into insanity. For truly she has been mad ever since she entered into this cursed wood, ever since she saw _him_ , this dark elf watching her through the trees, bidding her to come in and rest with him and his company. She has been mad ever since she left her home, mad to wander so far.

 

She hates this power, this _thing_ that she cannot see and therefore cannot slay. And she hates the feeling that it is toying with her, for it is. All these small actions are just feints, meant to test her. But it is not a fair match, for Aredhel is powerless.

 

It is not her new husband- how she hates to think of him thus!- for his magic is not so petty, and he torments her enough with his mere presence, he does not need these games.

 

 _Is it not enough,_ she wants to scream, as she wanders the darkened hallways of her new- not home- residence. _Is it not enough that I must be lost, trapped in a marriage I scarcely agreed to with a monster; and he is a monster,_ the things she finds in hidden corners of his castle and the words the servants whisper about their master when they think she is not listening, but Aredhel is always listening, only strengthen her conviction about this.

 

 _Is it not enough that besides my circumstances, alone, trapped, and with child-_ for Aredhel fears that she is, she has not bled in far too long- _with a child that I never asked for, is this not enough? Must I be haunted too?_

 

But she refuses to be frightened. Not of this. Everything else about her current circumstances frightens her. This is her fight, and she must learn to combat it without physical weapons. There are other ways, she knows. Eol’s books are full of these sort of magics. Spells to wound, to spread illness, to stop poison, to conceal weapons. Aredhel knows that somewhere these pages must contain a spell to confuse a traveler, to bewitch their mind and ensnare their body. She knows that in Eöl’s vast collection of sorcery lies the ability to do to someone what was done to her.

 

She does not think on that.

 

Magic can be used for good or ill and it will be her weapon, her chain to bind whatever stalks her, her means to a small victory, here where she is powerless.

 

The library will be hard to find. Aredhel has been there once before, but this palace snakes around itself twisting and disappearing. She found rooms and then could never locate them again, doors where there had been none. The geography of this place revolves, like an interlocking puzzle, impossible to solve. The architecture is menacing, designed to confuse, the passages are narrower, and the ceilings lower than elves were usually wont to build.

 

Undaunted- _there surely cannot be an infinite number of rooms_ \- Aredhel waits until her husband rides away, hunting he said, though she cannot imagine what sport the creatures who lurked in this wood can provide.

 

The servants can not be asked. She feels as if they watch her, reporting every move to their master. So she explores the castle alone, carrying a candle for added light. There are shadows here that her elven sight is unable to pierce.

 

The presence begins following her almost immediately. At first Aredhel attempts to ignore it as she climbs stairs that spiral at a dizzying angle and treads floors that do not lie level.

 

She has a candle, and so what if this thing pursued her to the library? Will it be able to discern her mission? Could it read? This thought gives Aredhel pause. How intelligent is this monster?

 

Soon she becomes to lost to care. The passageways stretch impossibly long and it seems to be getting darker, gathering more impenetrable shadows. Her path curves around itself, leading her back to where she began. Nothing in her surroundings appears familiar.

 

Her candle goes out.

 

Not with a last flicker of a dying flame, having consumed all the wick, but quickly, cleanly, as if it has been extinguished by unseen fingers.

 

It is dark. Not natural darkness, for Aredhel can not see anything. She is lost, and she is alone.

 

Then she is not.

 

It is there with her. Not lurking, not darting to and fro behind her, now squarely in front of her. It plants itself in her path, openly challenging. Two small, round, circles of light hover above her; unnatural, pupiless eyes, watching.

 

Aredhel thrusts her dead candle, the only weapon she has, at these points of light, but they bob just out of reach. And something touches her, not quite physically, but raking its fingers through her mind, her very soul. Aredhel screams, but the spectre snatches the sound from her throat before she can fully form it. Her body is paralyzed.

 

Then.

 

The weak light returns, her candle lights itself, Aredhel can breathe again, and she recognizes the hall she stands in.

 

_Your mind is full of light, little one. Not like those who dwell here._

 

The words are not spoken so much as put into her mind by an outsider.

 

_Forgive me my tricks. I an not so evil, only lonely._

 

The presence is powerful, filled with raw power, but there is truth behind its words. Aredhel has only assumed its intent, never actually sensed malevolence in the creature. What she feels around her cannot  be called good, but nor can it be named evil.

 

_Go where you wish,  I mean you no harm, though I cannot say the same for all here._

 

Aredhel grips the base of her candle holder. “Well met, spectre.“ She has not forgotten how to be a princess, even now. “I thank you.”  Their match has ended in a draw, but perhaps she has found an ally. She will take any alliance that she can get in this place.


End file.
